Your grace is your illusion
that occupies a pride of place
in your tiniest cocoon
where the light of logic
is conspicuous by its very absence.


Distinctive scars in my mind
are the veiled references to your
true intention,
you wiggle your emotion to the limited tunes of your obtrusive charade without a smidgen of shame.


Your idiosyncrasies don't yet
reach farther, but well-known to me,
no prophylactic for your
inveterate narcissism
as the pesky bugs in your callous heart can't digest compunction.


You can preen your
deceptive feathers to hold sway
on the docile mind,
you can gloss your silver plated words to hide your rusty conscience,
you can cry wolf to valorize
your stale heart.


Yet, the conceivable future
is not far when the pressure of your pompous pride will whiff
the smell of truth
exploding your cocoon throwing you into the reality to groan with repentance,
then only my each scar
will find a reason to be forgiven.